


Unexpected

by lindmere



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:45:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim confuses Leonard's plans for fast, disappointing sex all to hell by being nice.</p>
<p>Not new; old, but dug out of the archives <i>because nostalgia</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

The night Leonard says yes isn’t so different from all the nights he said no.  
  
Jim is stretched out on the couch in Leonard’s tiny apartment, legs dangling over the arms, drinking his way through a six-pack that’s technically Leonard’s but that he maybe—probably—bought for Jim.  
  
They’re too tired to go out and too restless to go to sleep. Jim pops the cap off beer number four and bats it toward him; Leonard reaches up and catches it without even looking and chooses to take it as a message from a universe that’s had very little to say to him lately except  _you’re doing it all wrong_.  
  
Jim gathers his long limbs and rises, parks the beer and cracks his knuckles the way Leonard does before surgery.  
  
When Jim crouches in front of him Leonard expects to feel those fingers on his fly, but instead they thread through his hair, carding it so his bangs fall in Leonard’s eyes.  
  
“I love it when your hair does that. That goo you use, it never works.”  
  
Leonard gives a little snort and jerks his head away, but Jim just slides the hand down to his face, cupping his cheek. He gives Leonard a long, blue look, searching for confirmation or invitation or resistance.  
  
It’s already more complicated than he expected and Leonard figured he’d be having his dick sucked by now, but he guesses any response is better than none, so he cocks an eyebrow and says, “Well?”  
  
Jim laughs and pulls away and for a decelerating moment Leonard thinks he’s offended him or scared him off, but Jim reaches out a hand to pull him to his feet and claps him on the shoulder, just like before anything Leonard is reluctant to do, which these days is a lot of things.  
  
Jim leads him to his own bedroom, just a slot behind a head-high dividing wall with a tiny nightstand and a slightly bigger bed that various bits of him hang out of.  
  
“Now what?” he says, a bit bullishly; Jim’s bright attention and unexpected failure to take the lead are making him nervous. “You gonna tear my clothes off or something?”  
  
“Would you like that?”  
  
“Not especially. I’m kind of partial to this shirt.”  
  
“Me, too," Jim says, starting to work on the buttons with a careful precision that sends a crawling-ants feeling down to Leonard’s toes. Jim’s done this a half dozen times before, when Leonard’s professionally valuable fine motor control has been shot by booze or exhaustion, but never as a prelude to anything but bed and sleep.  
  
He reaches the last button and draws his fingers away; like a magic trick, the shirt stays closed. He then very deliberately pulls it open, exposing Leonard’s chest. An imaginary breeze makes his nipples draw tight. There’s suspense in wondering what those long fingers will do next.  
  
Jim pushes the shirt back from his shoulders and Leonard flaps a bit, ungracefully, to get it to fall to the floor. Jim’s eyes sweep down and his lips curve up, delighted, like he’s never seen anything like it before.  
  
“Holy shit. You’re built like a brick doghouse.”  
  
“A brick  _doghouse_?”  
  
“That’s what my mom always used to say.” Jim looks doubtful. “Isn’t that a saying?”  
  
“Jim, it’s a brick  _shithouse_. Your mom was trying to get you not to curse. At which she failed, obviously.” He tries not to tease Jim too much for his provincialism, but it’s always a surprise when that flytrap mind has gaps in knowledge, usually about the most mundane things.  
  
“OK, then,  _shithouse_. Eww.”  
  
Jim runs smooth palms over his shoulders, down his arms and up his chest, cupping his pecs, grazing lightly over the nipples. It feels good, so good, and so much better because he knows those hands. As a surgeon Leonard notices hands, and Jim’s are beautiful, except that the fingers are a little too short.  
  
Jim’s wearing a light, grey pullover that doesn’t give Leonard a chance to try the button trick for himself, so he lifts the hem and runs a hand over Jim’s belly. It’s enviably flat and just a little soft with the last traces of baby fat, and there’s a fine line of hair from the navel southward.  
  
On the second pass of his hand, Jim twitches and shivers.  
  
“You’re ticklish! Why am I just finding this out now?”  
  
Leonard grabs for Jim’s middle and Jim blocks him; they’re both laughing, and the slight weirdness is gone, except that now it seems less likely to lead to sex than Leonard pinning Jim down and giving him a good tickling.  
  
That thought lasts as long as it takes for Jim to pull off his shirt. When his head re-emerges the mysterious smile is back, and Leonard thinks,  _he’s serious_. He isn’t sure what to make of that.  
  
Jim’s hands circle his waist and pull him closer. He can feel the warmth of Jim’s body; craves it, because the bastard of a super keeps the little apartment cold and because Jim’s skin is fair and smooth, pale except for the faint flush at his chest—a sexual flush, Leonard thinks, and the thought excites him, along with the idea that Jim’s desire will be manifest in that transparent skin, those clear eyes. Jim doesn’t hide anything from him, ever, the surest reason Leonard calls him  _friend_.  
  
 _Why spoil it?_  says a voice in Leonard’s head.  
  
 _It’s only one night_ , says another, probably the one responsible for wrapping his hands around Jim’s biceps and pulling him closer, close enough that their chests touch, warm and soft and hard, a shock of flesh but still less surprising than the touch of lips a bare second later.  
  
It’s so unexpected, Leonard nearly pulls away. Of all the things Leonard imagined sex with Jim might involve—acrobatic positions, alien sexual practices, bizarre locations—he’d never imagined a kiss like this. Jim’s lips are the stuff of clichés—full and soft and warm, and the kiss is far from demanding. It’s an unqualified gift.  
  
He parts his own lips but there’s no greedy tongue, just more of those firm lips. Jim bites his lower lip very lightly and tugs, barely a tease, and just as Leonard’s beginning to enjoy the pressure, the slight sharpness against tender flesh, Jim pulls a few inches away and says, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”  
  
It’s a puzzle, waiting for the onslaught that never comes. Jim’s approach is like the tide, a little higher on the beach with each wave, and Leonard supposes he’s the sandcastle that's slowly collapsing.  
  
He'd really like another kiss, but it seems presumptuous; he’s not sure how far off the narrow path that leads to Jim’s cock he’s supposed to stray. He's also worried that Jim will think he's hesitant or--worse--boring, and now his curiosity is sufficiently aroused, along with other things, that he's anxious to get things moving forward.  
  
He puts his hands on Jim's bare shoulders and presses down, and Jim folds obligingly, only he doesn't just sit on the edge of the bed, he sprawls backward on his elbows. His feet are still on the floor, his denim-clad thighs are parted, and he's staring up at Leonard with smug enjoyment, like he's something Jim invented. Every line on Jim's body suddenly seems to point to his groin, and Leonard has no choice but to look directly at it.  
  
What he sees is a distinct and sizable bulge, and it makes him give a little bark of relief.  
  
"Hey." Jim's mock-frowns. "You shouldn't laugh at my erection until you actually see it."  
  
"I'm not laughing  _at_  it, I just--"  
  
"Laughing  _with_  it then?"  
  
"Will you  _shut up_? I'm just relieved, that's all. I wasn't sure if--" Leonard stops, not sure what he's not sure of.  
  
"You thought maybe I could lie on your bed with you standing half-naked over me, about to have sex with me, and not get hard."  
  
Jim curls back up to a sitting position with a contraction of abs that Leonard can only admire and slides his hands up the backs of Leonard's thighs to the swell of his ass and back down again. He's not sure if he's being appreciated or sized up. A few more sweeps of those warm palms and Jim draws him closer, close enough that he can brush his lips against the nearly invisible hairs of McCoy's belly.  
  
Leonard sighs; the touch is so light, and Jim is gently kneading his ass, so far from urgent that he begins to worry again and cups a hand behind Jim's head, to make sure he knows Leonard likes it. The softness of his hair is another surprise and his brain hazily tries to form words to express his wonder at everything when Jim's hot, wet tongue suddenly traces the line where his lips were a second before, and Leonard's knees buckle a little. Luckily, Jim's hands are right there to catch him.  
  
Jim pulls him closer, buries his face in the sensitive flesh of Leonard's belly, hot mouth tracing over the transverse abdominus. Jim's tongue apparently knows its anatomy, or at least Leonard's anatomy, and when it slides into the hollow between abdomen and thigh, Leonard gives a little whine. It's a ridiculous sound, but Jim doesn't laugh; Leonard can feel his lips curve into a smile.  
  
Jim's mouth is mere inches from Leonard's now very erect cock, which is not especially happy at this enigmatic turn of events. Any move he makes now--unzipping his fly, pushing Jim back against the bed--will tip the action in one direction or another, and then he'll never know what Jim really intended.  
  
"Trust me," Jim had said at the start of all this, and Leonard had, because he was trustworthy in the things that counted.  
  
Jim pulls back just a little, and Leonard takes his hand away from the soft head with regret. Jim's arms are still wrapped around his ass and thighs and he rocks a little, happy to be there, eyes bright and a little too sincere.  
  
There's a narrow road between friends and lovers, and they're walking it now; Leonard isn't sure any more what Jim wants out of this, if it's anything that sucking Leonard's cock is likely to deliver.  
  
When Jim's fingers touch his fly, he can see himself in his own mind shouting  _Nooooo_ and knocking them away like slo-mo in a vid. But he doesn't, because Jim may be more vulnerable than he expected, but he isn't stupid.  
  
It's a pressure-close fly, which means that Jim has to run his finger down it to make the hard-working little molecules let go. When the fly gapes open it's a relief on at least one level, the level of his expectant cock, which has been sticking to its plan even as Leonard's brain has bounced back and forth.  
  
Jim is running his fingers around the inside of the waistband of Leonard's briefs, a polite if unnecessary prelude to yanking them down, and it's the last moment he can say  _stop_  and suggest something else. Maybe Jim would rather just kiss for a while; maybe he'd like to curl up on Leonard's old sofa and fall asleep, get up in the morning and see if he still feels the same.  
  
Or, maybe he'd like to go down on him. That would certainly explain why he's pulling Leonard's briefs down to his knees.  
  
Leonard's cock drops into the proceedings like a surprise guest. Jim catches it on the bounce and holds it, lightly, looking at it with interest but not reverence. It feels good, and it feels weird.  
  
"You know, you could say something," Leonard says, though he has to admit the sight of his cock in Jim's pale hand is fairly compelling.  
  
"Like what?" Jim gives it a tentative stroke, and Leonard shivers.  
  
"Oh, I don't know--like, 'Damn, that's impressive.' Like it wasn't something you just got served in the mess hall."  
  
"Oh," Jim says absently. "Well, it's fantastic, of course. I'm actually--I'm sort of trying to come to terms with it, you know?" And he goes back to scrutinizing it.  
  
"Sometimes I don't understand you. I mean, the actual words that come out of your mouth."  
  
Jim ignores him and continues the light stroking. It does the same strange things to him that the kisses on his belly did--makes him simultaneously want more and wish it wouldn't stop. Jim's palms are smooth and a little damp, almost frictionless, and they're Jim's palms, full of intention.  
  
With two fingers he traces the prominent vein from base to tip, surveying, before giving a tentative squeeze. Leonard gives a little twitch, and all his serious thoughts turn to  _Do that again_.  
  
Jim does, a few times, before slipping his hand further back. With care, he cups Leonard's balls, supporting more than squeezing, and Leonard gasps a little:  _So good_. The other hand keeps delineating, exploring.  
  
When Jim's hot mouth closes over the head, he doesn't see it because his eyes are closed, and he's almost forgotten that it was a possibility.  
  
He gulps air as if he's jumped into a pool; it's that wet. Jim's hand is still firm around his balls but his mouth is moving, undulating, lips working the shaft, pulling back to suck on the crown. It feels so good that it wipes Leonard's mind clean, of confusion and everything else.  
  
Jim is good at this, that much is clear. He knows how to vary the sensations while keeping the rhythm: lightly brushing Leonard's balls with his fingertips, tightening his grip around the base of his cock, sucking with force and then backing off to concentrate on the head, teeth scraping with tantalizing delicacy.  
  
Leonard rests a hand on Jim's head, strokes his hair a few times, enough to let Jim know that he's enjoying it, because he's not vocal during sex. He lets the hand slide to the side of Jim's face. He can feel his jaw muscles working, feel the slight up-and-down bob of his head. He steals a glance from under trembling eyelids and feels stark shock at the sight of his cock in Jim's mouth, his pink-purple flesh disappearing into Jim's glistening lips. Somewhere in the brain-fog of  _goodgoodgood_  is embryonic guilt, which may develop or vanish later, he'll just have to see.  
  
Jim tightens his grip, gives the underside of Leonard's cock a good swipe with his rough-wet tongue, and Leonard takes it as a hint. Maybe Jim's jaw is getting tired; maybe he's done all he's planned to do. Either way, Leonard is happy to oblige, but now he has a fresh problem, which is that he doesn't want to shoot into Jim's mouth, at least not without an invitation.  
  
He tries to pull back, not easy with his pants wrapped around his ankles and Jim wrapped around his dick. He brushes a thumb down Jim's cheek, the "come up for air" signal, but Jim doesn't, he just snakes a hand around to Leonard's ass and begins to massage, rhythmically, in time with the sucking.  
  
It just so happens that Leonard loves that.  
  
His climax starts with a rush and rumble of blood in his ears, his body getting ready for launch. Coming is relief and triumph and helplessness, a glorious undoing.  
  
He's not exactly aware of having come in Jim's mouth, but he's certainly aware that Jim's warm mouth is still on him, in no hurry to leave, carefully sucking him limp and clean, somehow aware of his pins-and-needles post-orgasmic sensitivity.  
  
Jim sucks, and Leonard strokes his hair and face while he drifts on a calm sea of endorphins. After a while Jim pulls away and catches his spent cock instead of letting it fall ingloriously back into place.  
  
"I wish I could have seen it," Jim says. It seems like forever since either of them said a word.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your face."  
  
Leonard doesn't know what to say;  _Next time_  is what pops into his mind. Praise would seem patronizing, thanks even worse, so he crouches down to Jim's level and pulls him into a kiss.  
  
Jim gives a little start but responds immediately, his lips a little salty and bitter. It's his own taste and Leonard doesn't mind. Though it isn't a particular kink of his, it is a reminder.  
  
Jim's enthusiastic reaction is suddenly unbearably sad.  _If this is what you wanted_... He wraps his arms around Jim, hears the echo of his own post-orgasmic heart thudding in Jim's chest.  
  
"You OK?" Jim asks, sounding a little tentative but otherwise like himself.  
  
"Fine. Great."  
  
"You're tired." He untangles himself from Leonard and cups his face with a hand. "I mean, don't get me wrong, the eyebags really work for you. But eight hours in the lab on top of everything else? It's nuts."  
  
"Yeah, well thank Dr. Savenn for that. Fuckin' Vulcans only need four hours of sleep a night."  
  
It's some kind of gift Jim has for making things seem normal. Leonard is crouched naked in front of him, limp well-drained dick dangling between them, bitching about his school work as if they were still in the living room, five feet apart.  
  
"Hey," Jim says, catching his wrist, "why don't we take a cat nap? We could go out later or, you know, stuff."  
  
"Stuff?" Leonard can't help a quick reference check to Jim's groin, but his jeans are unreadable.  
  
"Yeah, whatever. Whatever happens, I'm fine."  
  
Leonard wants to tell Jim that he shouldn't make promises like that, but this one comes with a smile that tells him Jim knows. Whatever, they'll be fine.  
  
Leonard stands up and looks at his dropped trousers uncertainly; his brain is too narcotized for another decision. Jim leans back on the bed again, enjoying the show.  
  
"I think you're allowed to take off your pants in your own house. If you want."  
  
"What about you? I demand pants parity. Off or on."  
  
"OK, off."  
  
Jim shucks off his jeans without ceremony and without embarrassment. Leonard's familiar with the long, mostly hairless legs, less so with Jim's package, not beyond furtive glances in the can or the changing room.  
  
Even at half mast, it's enough to make Leonard's jaw drop a little.  
  
"Shit."  
  
Jim shrugs. He's egotistical about a lot of things, but not his genetic gifts. It doesn't stop him from using them.  
  
He tosses his jeans in the direction of the far wall and lies down on Leonard's bed, rests his head on Leonard's pillow. Leonard does the same, functionally in Jim's arms because there's no room in the bed to be anywhere else.  
  
"God  _damn_ , you take up a lot of space." Jim pushes Leonard onto his side, facing the wall. He grabs for the covers, and Leonard expects to feel a bare ass against his own.  
  
Instead, Jim threads an arm under his elbow and rests it on his chest. They're fucking  _spooning_ , and he's not going to be able to sleep to save his life. Now Jim is brushing a kiss against the back of his neck, petting his chest a little.  
  
He wants to say,  _Jim, what the fuck is this?_  The scary thing is he thinks he knows.  
  
There's no way he's leaving that bed, not until morning. Maybe late morning.  
  
"I should have picked up stuff for breakfast," he says, shivering a little against the heat of Jim's body. "I make these eggs, with potatoes and asiago cheese."  
  
"That's okay," Jim says, drawing the blanket closer around them both. "Next time."


End file.
